


Waters of the Soul

by Mackaley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Breastfeeding, Comfort Sex, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Lactation Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25493494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackaley/pseuds/Mackaley
Summary: Crowley cups himself through his blouse in annoyance, presses the handful of flesh against his chest as if that could get them to behave. Aziraphale watches, doesn’t breathe. Something ticks over in his head and he is suddenlycurious, a wild new spark tentatively forming and coiling somewhere in his gut. Crowley raises his hand to snap himself dry, but Aziraphale snatches his wrist out of the air. Crowley looks at him in surprise.He takes a short inhale, licks his lips, and asks the traitorous question that’s running through his mind.“Can I--that is, can I see?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 225





	Waters of the Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Uh. So here's some lactation kink. There's no age play and it's soft and comforting and like. Maybe give it a shot. 
> 
> In all seriousness, I'm nervous about posting this not because it's a niche kink, but because I tried to demonstrate why it's appealing without it being fetish-y. Did I succeed? Who fucking knows. I'm yeeting this into the sun and never looking back. 
> 
> Title is from a collection of essays about breastfeeding called "Fresh Milk" by Fiona Giles: "It is transcendental, and full of meanings, like the Great Mother consoling all her suffering Children. Or the Holy Milk that purifies all our hate and desperation. … It is to think that one is able to erase the pain of another’s breast with one’s own. It is all about calming the sadness, and the hunger, and the hate, with the waters of the soul."

There’s always been something about late winter that makes Aziraphale restless. He supposes it’s a trait picked up from humanity and their eagerness for spring, for the first day of warmth after bitter cold months spent inside away from snow and long, dark nights. 

He’d stayed with a family during a particularly harsh winter once, thousands of years ago. He’d kept them safe, warm, fed, and one morning the youngest daughter, barely six, ran outside in her bare feet, mischievous laughter springing from her lips. Her mother yelled and Aziraphale had rushed after her, his own shoes forgotten, and by the time he caught up with her at the edge of the property, his feet were numb, the ice slush crunching under his toes. She stood with her arms thrown out, fingers spread wide and her face turned towards the sun like a blossoming flower. She beamed, eyes closed, at that star in the sky and Aziraphale paused to study her. It was such a simple expression of humanity, of joy. He closed his eyes too and let the sun warm his face before he scooped her up and admonished her gently. He trudged back through the melting snow as she clung to him and passed her off to her less-than-pleased mother.

He thought of her every time winter turned to spring and he felt that first touch of sun that promised things wouldn’t always be so barren and damp. A promise of restlessness fulfilled and anxieties quelled.

It’s late February and winter is clinging, seeping into his bones despite the miracles keeping him warm. Warlock is eighteen months old and it feels like the next nine years, too, are an everlasting winter that he must endure. 

They’d anticipated a couple more years of planning, but then Harriet Dowling put out an advertisement for a wet nurse with the understanding that the chosen applicant would be rearing Warlock through his childhood. They scrambled, secured their positions, and now here they were. Trying to raise a child with enough balanced moral character that he wouldn’t end the world. Lord help them, Aziraphale thinks bitterly. 

Crowley is lounging on Aziraphale’s bed in the gardener’s cottage, the long lines of him languid and at ease as he props up his elbow on the unused pillows. His hair is down, curls pooling limply around his shoulders after a long day of chasing a toddler. The purple painting his lips has faded and his sensible shoes were kicked off the moment he stepped through the door. Aziraphale thinks he looks rather handsome like this, unwound at the end of the day, but he’s always thought Crowley rather handsome. 

They’re meeting up every night, under the guise of debriefing. But the antichrist isn’t even two years old - there’s not much to debrief about, especially when his dependence on Crowley means the demon’s spending the majority of time with him. No, it’s become what it’s always been: companionship with the only other being who _understands_. It’s laughing and worrying and drinking with his partner, his best friend, before everything they’ve been pushing aside catches up to them at last.

They’re not drinking tonight, but Aziraphale wishes for nothing more than a tumbler of whisky. Something to calm his nerves and occupy his hands which are currently grasping at the worn armchair that came with the cottage. Crowley declined his offer of a drink, citing his lack of desire to miracle away the alcohol for Warlock’s next feeding. He’s shown much less interest in it lately, Crowley says, but still, no thank you. And Aziraphale is too tetchy to be drinking alone.

His fingers pick at the loose threads under his hands, the scratch of the garish floral fabric at his palms grounding and irritating him in turn. 

It’s just that he’s not quite sure if they’re going to succeed. 

He’s optimistic about the plan most days. Take a boy, make him somewhat good and somewhat bad, make him _human_ , and he won’t want to destroy the world that he loves so much. Easy. Right?

But children, _humans_ are unpredictable and nothing is ever quite certain. They could do everything right, as so many parents do, and still the boy could give in to his true nature. And where would that leave them? Fighting on opposite sides of a war that leaves the taste of ash in their mouths. 

He should be happy to go back to Heaven, to join up with his fellow angels and live in… bliss? As good triumphs over evil and things go back as they were always meant to. The Earth remembered as the brief experiment of free will that it was. Sushi and Schubert were all well and good, but clearly meant nothing compared to the glory of Heaven. Heaven is where he belongs. It is where he should want to be.

Except he doesn’t and he only admits it, truly, to himself when he is at his most frantic. Why would he want to go back to Heaven when Crowley would never be there with him? Everything they’ve experienced on this planet - the triumphs and devastation, the food, the culture, the late nights, the travel - is made exponentially better when they share in it together. Even an eternity of The Sound of Music could be bearable if only Crowley were there to grumble and complain and poke fun with him. 

But he doesn’t want Crowley in Heaven as much as, he’s sure, Crowley doesn’t want to be in Heaven. The thought of it sickens him, makes him want to shield his body against Crowley’s to protect him from the possibility. Heaven doesn’t--doesn’t _deserve_ Crowley, and he quickly shoves that thought aside before it gets caught up in the swirling miasma of anxiety coursing through him. 

He feels as if he’s standing on the edge of a cliff and only the wind will decide if he falls back to solid ground or if he’s pushed, tumbling and falling into something that could be the best or worst thing to happen to him, but is still _unknown_.

“Gonna wear a hole through that awful chair if you’re not careful.”

Aziraphale snaps his head away from his absent gaze out the window to look at Crowley, who’s staring at him with an amused smile that barely masks the concern on his face. Crowley nods his head forward, gesturing, and Aziraphale looks at his hand on the chair. His index finger is tapping wildly in place. He hadn’t even noticed. He stills his hand, resists the urge to start jostling his leg. 

“Yes, quite.”

Crowley frowns and Aziraphale is having a hard time looking at him, so he turns back towards the window.

“Are you all right?”

“Perfectly lovely.” 

There’s a long enough silence that Aziraphale thinks Crowley won't push it, but of course he can’t be that lucky. 

“I can see every limb of yours about to vibrate out of your skin. What's wrong?”

He turns back to Crowley, can't quite meet his eyes behind those sunglasses, and gives a tight-lipped smile that doesn't even reach the edges of his lips. 

“Nothing.” He pauses, knows he's a bad liar and that Crowley will call him on it. “I don't want to talk about it.”

He watches Crowley shift on the bed as he stares at Crowley’s elbow, the most he can bear to look at right now. 

“Might make you feel better.”

Aziraphale scoffs, and he _does_ feel as if he's about to vibrate out of his skin. He worries at the ring on his little finger and it only brings him momentary relief. He sees Crowley prickle at his silence and unfounded anger floods through him in place of his anxiety. His face flushes and he can feel the heat of it on his cheeks. He resumes his incessant tapping, thinks he might just get a drink after all. 

“I don't understand why you're not just telling me what's wrong. You'll feel better if you--”

The maelstrom of worry and panic and anger and fear whips itself into a frenzy and Aziraphale snaps. 

“Don't you dare tell me what will make me feel better!” he shouts. “How can I possibly _feel_ better when we have no idea what we're doing! This plan of yours is _ludicrous_. We are one angel and one demon. How are we supposed to just change the course of Armageddon?” 

His heart is beating too quickly in his chest and he feels his breath coming in shallowly. He needs to get up, be anywhere else but here. He stands up suddenly and whirls on Crowley, hoping to see his own anger mirrored in the demon so they can fight, scream, have a terrible row, but instead Crowley only frowns at him, his lips twitching in concern, his posture stiff. It drowns his anger almost immediately and the fear and panic replaces it, clawing at his heart and running like ice through his veins. He mutters and paces around the room. 

“Aziraphale.”

“Maddening. Absolutely maddening. I don’t know _why_ I keep letting you _drag_ me into these things--”

“Aziraphale.” 

“I should just go back to the bookshop and let this play out the way She intended. _She_ wouldn’t just wipe them all out again, She _promised_ \--”

“ _Aziraphale._ ”

Something in Crowley’s soft Scottish lilt commands him to stop pacing, so he does, immediately. He turns to face him, eyebrows furrowed at the accent. Crowley looks at him appraisingly. 

“Come here, dear.” 

Aziraphale walks towards him slowly and stands by the side of the bed, awaiting further instruction. Crowley pats the mattress and scoots over to make room for him.

“Crowley, I--”

The demon sighs and pats the bed again, firmly this time, and says in his regular timbre, “Stop. You’re thinking too much. You're going to listen to me now, okay? Do as I say?” It's a choice, permission for them to stop whatever this is about to be before it starts. But Lord, he wants someone to take control of his racing thoughts, to tell him what to do. To take the choice _away_. It's inherent within him to obey orders, feels familiar, and he nods without thinking. 

“Come here.” Crowley spreads his legs, smooths his skirt, and opens his arms.

It’s not that they haven’t been physically affectionate before, but what Crowley is suggesting has stopped his thoughts in their tracks, and he can’t do anything but obey. He sits on the bed, the mattress springs creaky from disuse, and looks at Crowley’s still outstretched arms. He wants nothing more than to crawl up in Crowley’s lap, have him hold him until all of this is over. To soothe his nerves and to bury himself in Crowley’s neck. But he stays at the edge of the bed, finding it hard in this moment to allow himself the comfort offered. Crowley raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“ _Angel_.” He gestures again with his arms and makes it clear that he’s not asking a question, that he's making this decision and Aziraphale is _relieved_. His resolve crumbles, and as the last shored up reserves of his heart collapse, so does he into Crowley’s arms.

Crowley pulls him close into his bony lap, his ever-present readiness betraying six thousand years of longing and Aziraphale realizes with a start that he has never felt more _safe_. Air shudders out of his pained lungs and it’s as if he’s never taken a breath until this moment. Crowley hesitates for only a moment before pressing a kiss to his forehead - and _oh_ , that’s something new, something unguarded, something honest. He encourages Aziraphale to rest his head on his shoulder and there’s nowhere he’d more willingly go. He wraps his arms around Crowley’s torso and buries himself in the crook of his neck as Crowley nuzzles his nose into his curls. He's lived in thousands of places, but none of them compare to the home he finds here in Crowley’s arms. Crowley holds him together, as he always has. 

“I want you to match my breathing, angel. It can stabilize some of the hormones running rampant through your stupid, overzealous brain right now.” 

Aziraphale snorts, but nods and focuses on the slow movement of Crowley’s chest. Every inhale presses them flush and with every exhale, Aziraphale sinks further into Crowley’s embrace. His worries remain, but they are slowly pushed back, buffeted by Crowley’s attention and care.

As soon as his breathing is under control, Crowley pulls him back gently. He's still wearing those damn glasses and Aziraphale reaches up with a huff, touching the metal arm and pausing for just a second before he removes them. Crowley's eyes are molten gold and affection radiates through every molecule of his being. Aziraphale basks in it like it’s the sun, Crowley’s love thawing out the cold worry that settled in his joints. He hands the glasses to Crowley and Crowley sets them aside without ever looking away from Aziraphale. 

“Angel,” Crowley says. His voice is quiet, firm. “I know you’re worried. But right now, this is just us. And we’re okay. We’ll always be okay as long as we’re together, yeah?”

He nods, knowing the absolute truth of it as soon as it’s spoken. 

Crowley smiles a small smile and reaches up, places his palm against Aziraphale’s cheek. He presses into the touch, every gesture an assurance, a promise. His hand is softer than it has any right to be and his long fingers splay gently across his temple and cheekbone. He moves the tips of his fingers over and over again along his hairline, causing Aziraphale to shiver under the attention. Soft tingles flow through his nerves and race down his spine. Crowley dips briefly into downy curls before fully sinking in, scratching and massaging at the angel’s scalp. Aziraphale twists and arches up into the contact, indulging as he always does now that he’s given himself permission. 

Crowley huffs out a quiet laugh at his sudden neediness before dragging his thumb down to rest against his lips, pausing in a quiet contemplation. He trembles in his need for Crowley to kiss him, the tension between them deep and electric. It consumes him whole and he looks at Crowley desperately, imploringly, until Crowley rubs his thumb over the corner of his mouth and leans in, brushing their lips together softly. 

They’ve kissed several times before. The last had been in 1941, back at his bookshop after the Blitz. He’d wanted to _thank_ Crowley properly then, feeling a whirlwind of longing and regret and relief and desire. But Crowley eventually pushed Aziraphale back from crowding him up against one of the bookshop columns, a whisper of “soon” against his lips.

Sixty-nine years later could count as soon to two beings such as themselves, but it was still far too long for Aziraphale’s tastes. He presses back against Crowley, his kiss deep and languid and longing as Crowley slips his fingers back into Aziraphale’s hair. A hot, wet slide of tongue licks along the seam of his mouth and he eagerly parts his lips, lets Crowley take him, comfort him like this, too. He whimpers as Crowley licks teasingly at his own tongue, presses them together quickly before retreating and nibbling at his lips. They've kissed several times before, but nothing with this much purpose, with the understanding that they weren't going to pull back, make an excuse and then only reference it again in the heated glances at their next meeting. 

A flush runs pink across his skin and he needs to be even closer, closer than they’ve ever been. His hand curls at Crowley’s chest and he slowly spreads his fingers wide, gripping at Crowley’s blouse, and drags his hand lower until he’s cupping Crowley’s breast. He’s startled when his thumb comes back wet, and he pulls apart from Crowley.

“Oh.”

Crowley groans in arousal and frustration.

“These bloody _breasts_. Sorry, they’ve--I told you, Warlock’s getting disinterested in breastfeeding, thank _Christ_ , and I’ve been leaking more than usual due to the lack of attention. Normally I just--” He waves his hand dismissively, “--But seeing as I was just so _wonderfully_ distracted.” 

Crowley cups himself through his blouse in annoyance, presses the handful of flesh against his chest as if that could get them to behave. Aziraphale watches, doesn’t breathe. Something ticks over in his head and he is suddenly _curious_ , a wild new spark tentatively forming and coiling somewhere in his gut. Crowley raises his hand to snap himself dry, but Aziraphale snatches his wrist out of the air. Crowley looks at him in surprise.

He takes a short inhale, licks his lips, and asks the traitorous question that’s running through his mind.

“Can I--that is, can I see?”

Crowley is still groping his breast and he is so caught off guard that he can’t school his face to a look of casual neutrality. He searches Aziraphale’s eyes and Aziraphale feels every cell in his body tense under the scrutiny. He wants to rescind the request, but he doesn’t. It’s a desperate, sick curiosity that he is just manic enough to ask for. Crowley finally nods, swallows, and Aziraphale adjusts himself so Crowley can undo the buttons down his chest with imperceptibly trembling fingers. 

Aziraphale’s gaze is fixed, hungry, as each new inch of freckled skin is revealed and he realizes with a start as Crowley is halfway done unbuttoning that the demon isn’t wearing a bra. His blouse falls open and the subtle curve of Crowley’s breast, still half-hidden, is the most erotic thing he’s ever seen in his life. He is desperate to get his mouth on Crowley, but doesn’t move lest he break this fragile simmer between them. 

Crowley takes a quick breath before shoving the blouse off his shoulders and dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. He looks at Aziraphale again and sits back, every muscle in his lean frame rigid with nervous potential energy.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes. He is captivated. 

The expanse of Crowley’s freckled shoulders is beautiful, a wiry strength present that is normally belied by the clothing over his lanky frame. His collarbones ripple under his skin and Aziraphale swallows the urge to bite and lick at them in turn. And then the swell of his small breasts rise, freckles here too, and end in light brown peaks, nipples flushed and hard. A small bead of milk sits at the tip of one of them and Aziraphale is frozen when confronted with the reality of it. He imagines what it would taste like on his tongue and a shock runs through him as his cock begins to stir. But more than his obvious arousal, there is a deep and dark hunger he feels in his soul at the sight. He _wants_ in a powerful, confusing way that has nothing to do with sex and he doesn’t quite understand. 

Crowley is sitting very still as Aziraphale looks his fill, and the angel finally looks up and says more earnestly than he’s ever been before, “You’re beautiful.” Crowley blows air from his lips and smiles nervously. 

“Can I touch you?”

Crowley looks like he can’t speak so he simply nods and his eyes track Aziraphale’s hand as he cups his right breast in his palm. They both inhale sharply and Aziraphale squeezes gently. The flesh is warm and soft, but firmer than he expected it to be. He gives it a few more squeezes and Crowley bats at his hand.

“Have you ever touched a tit before? Stop pawing at it like a teenager.”

Aziraphale glares, but begins caressing, his thumb running slowly under the sensitive underside of his breast. Crowley lets out a pleased hum. 

“I don’t generally go around touching people’s breasts, Crowley.” He can’t take his eyes away from the spot of white liquid slowly growing bigger at the tip of his nipple. “They’re just a little less… supple than I imagined.”

“Supple,” Crowley mutters, but his voice catches as Aziraphale’s thumb brushes the edge of his areola and his nipple puckers under the attention. “It’s because they’re full. I usually have to, y’know, pump the excess when they get like this. I’ve been trying to avoid miracles - don’t know how it’ll affect anything.”

Aziraphale’s lips quirk. “No peer-reviewed research about the effect of demonic miracles on breastmilk, then?”

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” 

Aziraphale hums in agreement and he can’t resist the temptation of it any longer. He swipes his thumb over Crowley’s nipple, the milk lubricating the touch, and both he and Crowley moan quietly. He raises his thumb to his lips and closes his eyes as he sucks it into his mouth. He’s surprised at how watery sweet it is and is shocked with the obvious realization that Crowley’s body _made_ this. It’s so intimate, that he’s consumed this part of Crowley, and he wants nothing more than to gorge himself on the feeling. 

His eyes flutter open, side of his thumb still between his parted lips, and Crowley is staring at him in hungry disbelief. He lets the digit slip free and sighs. 

“It’s sweeter than I thought. Have you tried it?”

“‘Course I have. Everyone’s tried their own.”

He curls his hand at Crowley’s sternum and then splays it wide, feels the ladder of his ribcage beneath his fingertips. He wants more. How is he supposed to ask for more? How is he supposed to move on after tasting this forbidden knowledge? He taps his thumb on Crowley’s chest and doesn’t quite meet his eye, the request dying in his throat. His anxiety begins to stir again until perfect, _wonderful_ Crowley who knows him better than anyone else ever could, lifts his chin and kisses him firmly before pressing their foreheads together.

“You want more.” It’s not a question. Aziraphale nods, and Crowley kisses him again. “You can have more,” he whispers against his lips.

Aziraphale shivers and kisses him in quick succession, a thank you for so much, but always and most especially for knowing him best, knowing that he couldn’t ask directly and indulging him anyway.

Crowley sits back and assesses their positioning before urging Aziraphale to lie across his lap. They maneuver their limbs, Crowley pillowing Aziraphale’s head with his arm and Aziraphale wrapping his own around Crowley’s skinny waist. This newfound desire be damned, Aziraphale feels so safe and secure being held like this that he thinks he might just snuggle up close and let Crowley rock him to sleep.

But then Crowley’s fingers tangle in his hair and scratch at his scalp and he feels his cock stirring with interest again. He looks up at Crowley and they both laugh nervously and he feels not for the first time how lucky it was that they’d come to understand each other so well. Crowley cups his face with his free hand and strokes across his cheekbones. His smile is so loving and beautiful and _protective_ and he looks down at him in awe like he can’t believe he gets to hold Aziraphale like this. 

“All right, angel?” he asks. “Good?”

Aziraphale nods and turns his head to press a kiss to Crowley’s palm. “Never better.” 

“Good.” Crowley continues to massage his scalp and lets him proceed at his own pace, something he’s immensely grateful for. He turns back towards Crowley’s breast and contemplates it. He cups it tentatively and encouraged by Crowley’s pleased hum, brings his lips forward to circle around the hard nipple. He whimpers at the first feel of it on his tongue - he’s been thinking about this for years (although, certainly not _this_ ), and he’s suddenly desperate for it. He circles his tongue around the tight bud and flicks it with his tongue. Crowley’s hands clench in his hair as he drags it between his teeth and the demon lets out a punched-out laugh of arousal.

“Angel, not that this isn’t _exquisite_ , but you’re not gonna get anything like that.” 

Aziraphale rolls the nipple around on his tongue one last time before removing his mouth. “I’ve hardly done this before. I’m going to need some guidance.” There’s no bite in it and he smiles. Crowley rolls his eyes, but adjusts Aziraphale’s head forward, touches his jaw to further guide him.

“Open your mouth wider and then place your tongue under--exactly. Satan, I don’t know how I’ve lived this long without your mouth on me. When you’re ready, just suck.”

Aziraphale’s tongue rests just below Crowley’s nipple and his lips are covering half of Crowley’s small breast and he must look ridiculous, this is _ridiculous_ , but then he sucks and he’s rewarded with a flood of milk on his tongue, and it is _perfect_. He moans as he swallows it, digs his nails into Crowley’s lower back, and feels Crowley’s fingers tighten in his hair in kind. They pull each other closer and Aziraphale stares into Crowley’s eyes as he sucks again, another splash of milk coating his tongue. 

Crowley’s gaze is possessive and burns into his very soul. He gives into it, wants to be consumed and possessed and loved and protected by his demon. He continues to suckle at his breast and Crowley thunks his head backwards as he caresses his cheek and cradles his head against his bosom. 

“Angel, angel, angel,” he whispers over and over again, and Aziraphale loses himself in the mantra.

He doesn’t know why this is so calming. There are no past memories, no state that he would revert to, that would resurface and awaken within him. No distant echo of motherly love that would flood through him. But he has never been so serene. Any lingering traces of his earlier dread and nervousness dissipate as he rests at Crowley’s bosom. Here, he only has to focus on this, being held in Crowley’s arms, in his lap, his breast and his milk filling his mouth. And he allows himself to be Crowley’s sole focus as well, lets himself believe that he deserves to be taken care of in such an ancient way.

It is a promise of restlessness fulfilled and anxieties quelled.

Crowley’s breast eventually produces less and less until Aziraphale is just pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the swell of it, nosing and nipping at his stomach and burrowing closer to Crowley. Crowley unbuttons the angel’s shirt and runs his palm in broad strokes over his skin, scratches through the chest hair. Aziraphale is drunk on sensation, his thoughts syrupy and languid and blissful. He’s distantly aware of the fact that he’s aroused - it seems so secondary to the rapture he’s found.

That is, until Crowley’s thumb catches against his nipple and he can’t help but groan loudly through his lowered inhibitions, his hips rolling and pushing up into the air as he seeks relief for his aching cock. He opens his eyes and Crowley smirks at him, dragging his nails down his stomach which jumps and twitches under the attention. Crowley rubs his palm firmly over the bulge in his trousers and squeezes his shaft. The touch is both confident and exploratory, the result of six thousand years of imaginings, and Aziraphale delights in it, almost laughs in sheer disbelief.

Crowley’s other breast has been neglected throughout the evening, and he shifts himself further into Crowley’s lap to remedy the situation. He latches around the nipple, a fresh burst of milk in his mouth and grabs at Crowley’s wrist encouragingly. Crowley moans at the attention and quickly undoes the buttons at Aziraphale’s waist. Through a series of well-timed wiggles and hip movements, they manage to shove off his trousers and pants which join Crowley’s long-forgotten blouse on the floor. His cock is stiff and red against his stomach and he doesn’t miss the way Crowley looks like he wants to devour him, too. Crowley slicks his palm with a miracle before dragging his hand from root to tip in a firm grasp.

Aziraphale’s mouth falls open and he keens against Crowley’s bare skin as the demon works his cock slowly. Every fantasy he’s had over the past couple of centuries are poor imitations to the way Crowley’s hand wraps perfectly around his cock, for the way his thumb feels as it swipes through the slick and tacky precome beading at his head. The strokes and tugs at his cock match his lazy, absent suckling at Crowley’s nipple until Aziraphale can’t concentrate and just presses himself against Crowley’s stomach.

Crowley releases his cock to roll his heavy balls in his still-slick hand. He massages firmly and then lowers his fingers to press against Aziraphale’s rim and the angel jumps, frisson sparking from the touch and rising in goosebumps throughout his body. 

“Is this okay?”

Aziraphale nods against him. “Please,” he breathes. 

The first breach of Crowley’s finger is odd, but not unwelcome. It doesn’t take long for him to rock his hips against Crowley’s hand and beg for a second finger. Crowley laughs and pushes a second finger in slowly alongside the first, thrusting in and out of him at a steady pace. 

Aziraphale lowers himself to Crowley’s breast again and sucks gently, desperately needing to feel full of Crowley. Of his fingers, his milk. Just full of _him_. He lets it wash over him from the inside out, knowing that all he has to be right now is Crowley’s. He can’t find it within him to want to be anything else.

He keeps his mouth at Crowley’s nipple, although it devolves into teasing flicks of his tongue and drags of his teeth against the sensitive bud. Crowley continues to thrust his fingers in and out of him slowly, an intense ripple of pleasure passing through him every time Crowley pushes up and rubs against his prostate. His cock is jerking and twitching helplessly, precome dribbling over the tip and leaving tacky lines in the hair around his belly button. 

“Crowley please, please I’m so close. Please touch me.” He’s begging and babbling and he doesn’t care because Crowley slips his arm out from under his neck and finally touches his cock again, stroking firmly in alternating time with his fingers pushing into him. He curls back against Crowley’s freckled skin and cries out against him as the tide of prolonged arousal rolls through his body. His come coats Crowley’s hand in thick spurts, and his arse clenches and flutters tightly around Crowley’s fingers. Crowley works him through it until Aziraphale hisses from oversensitivity and then pulls out of him reluctantly.

He lays back across Crowley’s lap and closes his eyes, lets the post-orgasm haze wash over him, and he breathes deeply. He opens his eyes again to see Crowley biting his lip against a shy smile. He thinks back to a couple hours ago when he’d been so tense and hurt and scared and compares it to the bone-deep satisfaction and relaxation he feels now and he’s so _grateful_. 

He sits up and straddles Crowley’s lap, swallows the groans from Crowley’s mouth as he rubs his bare arse against Crowley’s erection tenting his skirt. He presses kisses and thank yous into every inch of skin he can reach. He cups his hands at Crowley’s cheeks and it’s like he’s holding his whole world in his hands. This is why they are doing this. This is why they must succeed in their plan. Because any future in which Aziraphale doesn’t get to see Crowley exactly like this, yellow eyes blown wide and gazing at him like he’s the only thing in existence, isn’t one that he wants to take part in. 

“My darling,” he breathes. “Make love to me.”

A grin blooms across Crowley’s face and he nods, dragging Aziraphale closer by his plush arse cheeks and vanishing the rest of their clothing in one quick motion. The feel of their bare skin pressing flush has Aziraphale’s cock stirring with renewed interest, and he grinds himself forward against Crowley’s hard length. Crowley squeezes his hips and nips at his mouth, settling him further up on his lap. His cock is nudging his entrance and Aziraphale reaches behind him to line it up before sinking fully to the base, enveloping his shaft in one slow drag. 

They are both silent, staring at each other in disbelief that _this_ , this is finally happening, until Aziraphale can’t stand it anymore and rocks his hips forward. The small movement spurs Crowley into action and he lifts his hips to meet Aziraphale’s thrusts forward. The air is filled with soft gasps and grunts and the sound of skin against skin, lips against lips. Crowley’s hands are clutched at his back, in his hair, at his hips, and Aziraphale can’t help but be just as desperately frantic as he runs his hands over Crowley’s lithe frame as well, giving one breast a cheeky squeeze and moaning deep into Crowley’s mouth when a small trickle of milk pours over his hand. 

They move quick against each other, kisses turning into shared breaths and they look right into each other’s eyes, only an inch apart.

“Safe with me, angel,” Crowley pants out, and Aziraphale grips his hair tighter. “You’re mine, and I’m yours, and nothing, nothing can touch that, yeah?” 

Tears spring from Aziraphale’s eyes as he just nods and bears down harder, kisses him deeper, and he comes again, untouched, around Crowley’s cock. Crowley throws his head back and pistons into him, filling him with come and Aziraphale finally, finally feels _full_ of Crowley.

They sit and catch their breath, trading unhurried kisses and quiet affirmations. Crowley kisses him one last time before pulling out with a groan and miracling them clean. He looks up at Aziraphale hesitantly and the benefit of lifetimes of friendship is that Aziraphale can read him, too. Knows the question that he wants to ask but is currently lodged in his throat.

“Stay the night, please.” _Stay every night_ , he’ll ask in the morning. Crowley exhales in relief and kisses him again before miracling them into warm pajamas. 

“If you insist, angel. You know I can’t say no to you.” The demon yawns in exaggeration and stretches his arms high above his head. 

“Yes, I am rather spoiled. Might get insufferable one day if you don’t put a stop to it.” 

“ _Might_ get?!” Crowley is _beaming_ at him.

They settle under the covers and tangle their limbs tight together, Crowley’s ankle hooked under the angel’s thigh and Aziraphale’s hands curled at the back of his neck. He rests his head against Crowley’s chest and doesn’t fall asleep, but revels in the security of Crowley’s embrace. 

The demon’s breathing slows against him and Aziraphale clings to him tighter, his worries soothed because now he _knows_ that they will always be okay as long as they are together.


End file.
